


The Modern Cure for a Hangover

by transfixeddream



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transfixeddream/pseuds/transfixeddream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles gets drunk, and Lydia and Jackson get even.</p><p>Also posted <a href="http://transfixeddream.livejournal.com/133224.html">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Modern Cure for a Hangover

**Author's Note:**

> Written for stop_drop_howl, for the prompt _elegantly wasted_. A big thank you to shinyslasher for giving it a quick look-over!

"You are--" _grunt_ "--the biggest--" _grunt_ "--lightweight I've ever--" _grunt_ "--seen. Jesus, Stilinski."

Stiles doesn't say anything, mostly because his tongue feels too big for his mouth, and Jackson's body where he's pressed against it is really, really warm. He tightens his arm's grip around Jackson's shoulders in an effort to bury himself in said heat, and he gets a, "If you make me fall down these stairs you are _dead_ , I swear," in response. Stiles thinks that this half-carrying thing Jackson is currently doing would be much better if Jackson would just stop the threats for a few seconds. Maybe he'd sing Stiles a love song if Stiles asks, instead.

The thought of Jackson Whittemore serenading him is enough to start him giggling, and he looks over to Lydia, like she can read his thoughts and finds the idea hilarious, too. But Lydia--pretty, pretty Lydia, whose lips are red tonight and who looks amazing in a little black number--just presses her lips together and widens her eyes, so Stiles thinks maybe she's heard Jackson sing and he sucks at it.

Stiles is swaying when they finally reach Lydia's bedroom door, and Jackson pulls him in closer. Stiles thinks maybe this drunk thing is okay, if it leads to Jackson squeezing him like he wants to be close to him. Of course, when Lydia opens the door for them, Jackson almost pushes him onto the bed--which in any other case would probably be really hot--and Stiles lands with his face buried in Lydia's lavender scented sheets.

So the landing could've been better, but the ride was still very good.

"You can't just leave him like that," Stiles hears Lydia say, and Jackson just makes this tight little annoyed sound.

" _You_ didn't carry him up here," he says. Stiles would like to add his two cents into this debate, but when he tries to speak, all he gets is a mouthful of soft linen.

He doesn't really pay attention to whatever else Jackson and Lydia are debating about, so it takes him by surprise when Jackson pulls him off the bed and into his arms. This is a bit too much for Jackson, Stiles thinks, but then he catches Jackson's unamused expression, and a second later Lydia's tugging off his shirt, then his jeans. And, okay, Stiles is definitely not too drunk for _this_.

But then Jackson says, "Don't get hard against my leg, Stilinski," and Stiles immediately stands--or tries to, anyway--straighter and nods.

When Jackson puts him back on the bed, it's a bit more gentle--the blankets are even pulled back before Stiles gets into the bed, which he wonders about until he remembers that Lydia's here, too. Stiles has to crawl over a little because Jackson tells him to, but he's on his back instead of his belly so he can actually breathe without difficulty.

He looks around for Lydia and finds her unclipping her earrings, her minidress gone and replaced with a thin tank top and boxers. Stiles reminds himself that she's responsible for his current almost-nakedness, and he smiles dopily at her, which earns him a... well, it's not exactly a _smile_ , but she doesn't look as crabby as Jackson. He considers it a win. Especially when she climbs into the bed beside him, strawberry blonde hair falling gracefully on the pillow as she looks at him.

"Are you okay?" she asks, and, oh yeah. Stiles is _great_. Awesome. Perfecto. 

Stiles doesn't trust himself with words, however, so he just nods and grins at her. This time, he gets a small smile back, and he feels like a million bucks.

The bed sinks to his left, and Stiles turns his head just enough to watch a bare-chested Jackson get under the covers. He turns back to Lydia, who's been saying something, but she's looking over Stiles' head which means it's obviously not meant for him, so he doesn't feel so bad for not hearing her. He does, however, hear Jackson's response.

"Why me? I risked him puking on me all the way up here."

"Well he's not puking on me _and_ my bed," Lydia says, and Stiles knows she's won the argument when Jackson doesn't say anything else. Then Stiles is being gripped hard by Jackson and actually _flipped_ , until he's inches from Jackson's face and can make out every freckle scattered on the bridge of his nose. Jackson doesn't look very happy about something, but Stiles can't figure out what. His mouth is full and red and very appealing, and if Stiles wasn't feeling really sleepy all of the sudden, he might actually try to kiss them.

Instead, he mumbles, "You're really pretty, Jacks'n."

Behind him, he can feel the rumble of Lydia's quiet laughter, but in front of him Jackson just rolls his eyes derisively, which is plain rude. Here Stiles is, giving him a compliment, and Jackson just _rolls his eyes_.

"Go to sleep, Stilinski," Jackson mutters, but he doesn't shove Stiles' hand off his arm when Stiles puts it there, so Stiles falls asleep feeling triumphant.

*

Stiles awakens with a start, bed too big and far too comfortable to be his, and he sits up quickly. Too quickly, evidently, because his head starts spinning and pounding, and he's stuck like that for a minute or two, feeling like his brain's trying to burst out of his skull. It doesn't, thankfully, and he's left with a much more manageable, light throb. Which brings him back to the whole where-the-hell-am-I? thing.

He has himself half-convinced that at some point last night, a new, much more accommodating enemy of Scott and Derek's kidnapped him--it's not like it's the first time--until he sees the picture of Lydia and Jackson on the dresser. Definitely Lydia's room, and he wonders why the hell he didn't recognize it immediately. Then again, it's not like he was really able to notice the contents of the room the couple of times he's been in here.

So either Lydia kidnapped him (which, if he's honest, sounds awesome), or he's in Lydia's for some other reason he can't remember (which is still awesome). What's even better, however, is that he's just in his underwear. Which means Lydia must've _wanted_ him in just his underwear. He grins, and then groans as he tastes the inside of his mouth. He figures he can savor the details of the scenario after he brushes his teeth, considering he's just realized that wow, his morning breath is a lot worse than it normally is.

There are two toothbrushes in Lydia's bathroom--and it's fairly obvious who owns the other one--so Stiles sticks some toothpaste on his finger and goes to work on making his mouth a better tasting place. Lydia's toothpaste tastes like vanilla and mint, and he hums around his finger as he scrubs on his tongue. He spits, rinses out his mouth, then splashes a little warm water on his face and calls it a day. His mouth doesn't taste like ass and he looks a little more presentable.

He walks out of the bathroom and is immediately greeted by Jackson, arms crossed and sitting on the bed. He looks slightly annoyed, but Jackson tends to look some degree of annoyed at all times, so Stiles doesn't take it personally. Lydia's sitting next to him, twirling a strand of hair around her finger and watching him with a hint of a smile.

Stiles immediately remembers his near-naked self and tries--and mostly fails--not to blush twenty shades of red. "Uh, hi, guys," he says slowly, glancing around for anything he can use to cover his crotch. Granted, both Jackson and Lydia have seen every inch of what he has, but none of those times started with him walking in on their full-clothed selves with just a pair of briefs on.

"Sleep well?" Lydia asks, and it sounds like she's trying really hard not to laugh.

"I can't complain," Stiles says. He licks his lips. "Um. Why am I here exactly?"

"Because you can't hold your liquor," Jackson says. "You had three beers and you tried to make out with a fern. We figured your dad would shoot you if you went home drunk."

"Oh."

"I carried you from my car," Jackson continues. "Not to mention, I dragged your ass up thirty stairs."

"Oh," Stiles says again. "Did I try to make out with you, too?"

"No," Jackson says. He shifts on the bed and presses his lips together, like he's actually bothered that Stiles _didn't_ try to swap spit with him. Stiles makes note of this for future occasions when he's drunk, but in all honesty he'll probably forget within an hour.

Lydia squeezes Jackson's leg--Stiles' eyes immediately zone in on it, at the way her fingers wrap around his upper thigh--and she laughs. "You didn't try to make out with _me_ , either. A girl has feelings, you know."

Stiles swallows hard and tries not to say the "Sorry" that's threatening to come out. He's not a complete idiot; he knows Lydia's just joking around. But really, he chose to make out with a fern plant over Lydia or Jackson. That's just unacceptable.

"Maybe we should show him what he missed out on," Lydia says, voice playful as her finger creeps closer to the inside seam of Jackson's jeans. Stiles groans inwardly because, hey, he was drunk! He should not be punished for anything he might have done (or not done, as the case may be). But Jackson's smirking--and regardless of what they now do in their extracurricular activities, Stiles' default is to be worried when Jackson Whittemore is smirking--and he nods, turns his head, and then he and Lydia are kissing.

Before, back when this was an unrealized possibility and Stiles only saw Jackson as the enemy, he used to torture himself with these images. Thinking about how Jackson would kiss Lydia, how his thumb would brush over her cheek, or her hand would plant itself to his forearm, the sounds they'd make. Now, watching this in real life, it's a whole different kind of torture. Stiles' head is still throbbing a little, for god's sake; he's being punished enough already without their input.

Lydia breaks the kiss, and she gives Jackson a look that he seems to interpret immediately. His hands go straight to his shirt and he starts unfastening the buttons, while Lydia pulls her own shirt off, leaving her in just a small, baby blue bra. A few moments later, Jackson's shirt is off, and Stiles releases something that's a little too close to a whine for him to feel comfortable with. When Jackson and Lydia go back to each other, Stiles gives up on standing and takes a seat on Lydia's desk chair.

Stiles somehow always manages a little surprised when he sees them making out, because the thing is, they're _not_ how he had imagined them for the past year or more. Instead of cradling her face, Jackson's hands run up the expanse of Lydia's sides, thumbs sliding just under her breasts. Lydia's arms lock behind the back of Jackson's head, and she makes soft, happy noises when Jackson kisses her, versus his occasional grunt of encouragement.

The worst part, though, is that now that Stiles can appreciate Lydia and Jackson for who they are, he's overwhelmed by how hot they are. They are without a doubt the hottest couple at school, he can agree with everybody else there, but there's something more to seeing them like this. It's more intimate and sexy and his mouth feels dry, his dick starting to take an interest in the proceedings in front of him. He could close his eyes, maybe, but that would just make things worse; being able to watch Lydia and Jackson make out and choosing not to is plain stupid, no matter which way you slice it.

After what seems like _hours_ Lydia pulls away again and turns to Stiles with a tiny smirk. Her lip gloss is smeared pink around her mouth, and she looks beautiful. Even more so when her smirk grows into a smile and she motions with her head for Stiles to join them.

Stiles, of course, nearly breaks his neck getting off of the chair--literally, he trips and almost collides face-first into the floor. He hears Jackson mutter something that sounds suspiciously like, "Always a klutz, oh my _god_ ," but he tunes it out as he collects himself. Lydia and Jackson are separated on the bed now, a space between them just right for Stiles, so he sits down, his hands on his lap.

It's kind of awkward, truthfully. It always is to begin with. Stiles wants to blame it on the fact that because there's three of them it makes things more complicated, but he's pretty sure he'd have no idea how to begin if it were just Lydia and him, or Jackson and him, either. The fact that there are two other people to make the opening move probably helps, actually.

It ends up being Lydia--if Stiles thinks about it, it's pretty much _always_ Lydia--who starts it out. She pulls her legs up under her and turns to face Stiles and Jackson, pursing her lips. "You two should kiss," she says, matter-of-fact.

Stiles twists his head to face Jackson, who's biting his bottom lip like he likes the idea. Stiles is not exactly opposed to it, either, so he turns his body and leans in, hand resting on Jackson's thigh. Jackson meets him, and in an instant their lips are colliding hard, Jackson gripping the back of Stiles' head and holding him there. Jackson's lips taste like sticky sweet strawberries, and it takes a second for Stiles to register that it's Lydia's lip gloss. He's not sure if he should be so turned on by the fact that Lydia's there in between them, providing a transition between where Stiles ends and Jackson begins, but he so, so is.

Jackson presses hard against Stiles' mouth, lips moving in rhythm with Stiles', his free hand on Stiles' hip. It occurs to Stiles then that Jackson's doing the same thing he does when he makes out with Lydia; his hand is traveling the length of Stiles' side, a hot press against Stiles' skin that at the same time sends a chill down his spine.

Abruptly, Jackson pulls away, and before Stiles knows it he's being pushed down onto the bed, and then Jackson's straddling his waist, and Stiles has to close his eyes for just a second. Jackson leans down and kisses Stiles' shoulder, mouth warm and wet--and still just slightly sticky--as he moves his lips over the spot. Stiles groans, because honestly? It feels fan-fucking-tastic, and he's hard, so goddamn hard, head just grazing Jackson's ass.

And that, the feeling of Jackson's slow movements against Stiles' dick, is enough reason for his filter to go to shit and let out, "God, Jackson, I wanna fuck you. So bad."

He regrets it as soon as it's out, and Jackson freezes against him, mouth a mere inch from a new spot he was about to start on. And, really, he's totally fine with not doing that. Really. Screw what his dick wants. But then Jackson's ass starts moving again, and he kisses the spot on Stiles' neck.

"Maybe," he says, as he comes up to look at Stiles. He kisses him again, softer than Stiles expects from Jackson, and then he feels Lydia's hand on his leg, fingernails scraping delicately across his skin. When Jackson moves back down to his chest, Stiles can see her clearly: her bottom lip his caught between her teeth, and she has one hand down the front of her panties. And the idea of Lydia fingering herself while watching Stiles and Jackson--well, to say Stiles nearly comes in his pants would be putting it lightly.

"Come here," Stiles says, his voice sounding a little too gravely to his ears. Without pause, Lydia moves off the bed, shimmies out of her underwear, and gets back on it. Stiles' mouth goes dry as Jackson repositions himself on Stiles. He moves up to straddle his stomach, giving room for Lydia to straddle Stiles' chest.

Stiles runs his hands down Lydia's thighs, relishes in the soft, smooth skin that covers every inch of her. He looks up and watches as Jackson slides up behind her, hands cupping her tits and squeezing. Lydia groans and leans into him, head thrown back, and Jackson sucks at the hollow of her collarbone.

She pushes her hips closer to Stiles, and Stiles knows what she wants. He's very happy to give her it, too. She has to move up closer to him, until her knees are on either side of his head, and she runs a finger across the seam of Stiles' mouth. "Eat me, Stiles."

And Stiles, well. He's not going to turn down a command from Lydia Martin. He grips the back of her thighs with his hands and then moves in, breathing in her scent. Lydia's wet and she tastes so good when he presses his tongue to her pussy. He licks at her opening and then presses his tongue inside. He's not exactly experienced at this, but he does his best with fucking her with his tongue, letting her soft moans and the hand she has in his hair guide him. The entire thing makes him achingly hard, cock tight against his underwear, and he feels dizzy with it, the taste and the smell and the sound and the feel of Lydia.

It doesn't take long for her, really. She gets a finger on her clit and before Stiles knows it, she's pressing into him hard and coming, shaking with her orgasm. He keeps licking as she comes around him, riding her waves of pleasure like they're his own. When she's sated, she climbs off of Stiles and looks at Jackson, who's moving backwards down Stiles, until he's kneeling around Stiles' legs.

Stiles doesn't really have much time to think before Jackson's pulling down his boxers, and he groans in relief at the release of the cotton on his dick. Jackson spits into his hand and immediately grips Stiles' dick, squeezing just on the right side of hard, jerking him off in practiced strokes. Jackson's tongue is caught between his lips, his eyes narrowed as he jacks Stiles, and Stiles wants to scream out every time Jackson presses the pad of his thumb to the back of Stiles' cock head. Stiles bites down on his lip to keep something truly pathetic from escaping, and thrusts up into Jackson's wet fist, his eyes struggling to stay open.

"You like that?" Jackson breathes, and Stiles wants to say _Jesus fucking Christ of course I like it_ or just--anything that would maybe widen that sly grin on Jackson's face. Stiles may be a little biased right now, given that Jackson's got his dick trapped in his perfect hand, but he thinks this pleased sort of expression Jackson's wearing right now is his favorite.

Jackson cups Stiles' balls with his free hand, rolling them around with his fingers. They're drawn up tight, and Stiles knows he's about five seconds from shooting his load. He manages to get a few more thrusts in, and couple of the achingly wonderful jerks from Jackson's fist, and then he's coming, splattering hot and sticky on his stomach. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and lets Jackson wring out the rest of his orgasm, feeling generally dead to the world.

When Jackson lets go of Stiles' dick, his hands immediately go to his own jeans, and Stiles really wants to help him out when he pulls his dick out of his underwear, but he is _spent_. So he just watches as Jackson fists his dick and Lydia kisses his shoulder, and watches with half-lidded eyes. Jackson's pulling his cock in fast, frantic strokes, his eyes pressed tightly together, and he comes quickly, shooting over his hand and onto Stiles.

Which is sort of gross, if Stiles really thinks about it, but at this point he's past caring. Jackson sags against Lydia, his face flushed, and Stiles wants to join them. Except Lydia's bed is very comfortable, and, well, he's kind of tired now. Luckily, Lydia and Jackson seem to have the same idea, because they're lying next to him, Lydia between them.

"I gotta say," Stiles says, breathing still a little heavy, "this is not exactly going to encourage me _not_ to drink."

Lydia laughs, but Jackson narrows his eyes at Stiles. "Carrying you was a one time deal, Stilinski, and don't you forget it." He doesn't look like he really means it, though, so Stiles doesn't take it too seriously. Besides, he'd... probably do the same for Jackson. Maybe.

He's about to give Jackson some clever retort, but he chooses that moment to scratch his stomach, and he gets a handful of cooling jizz. He grimaces as he looks at the mix of his and Jackson's splooge on his hand.

"Question," he says, in Lydia's direction. "How many people can you fit in your shower?"


End file.
